10 | Signatures (part 2 of 2)
The moment he dropped that stupid-ass letter in the mail box, John wondered if he should've left the whole damn thing alone. He cursed silently, remembering the painfully short sentences he'd scrawled. All three of them. He might be a good writer but he'd never written a letter, let alone a letter to the woman he was pretty certain was his soulmate. He'd spent the entire weekend combing over every single truck engine in the lot just to keep his hands and mind occupied. By the time Monday rolled around, he was exhausted and done, his nerves shot to hell. That alone was enough to piss him off. He ran a hand through his hair and tried not to squirm in his seat. Class was about to start but there was no sign of Margaret. John shook his head and pulled out his notepad.
He wasn't sure what he expected to come from his letter, but he hadn't been this nervous since he was nineteen years old, asking Mr Adam Bell to invest in his small but growing business. Ever since his father's death, John kept an iron grip on himself; his emotions, thoughts, and actions. But now? He didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do besides wait, and waiting had never been his strong point.
"Shall we start then?" Richard began chalking a few notes on the board. John stiffened, his eyes stuck on the pad of paper in front of him as the classroom door gently opened. Margaret didn't say a word as she quietly slipped into her usual seat. She took out a pen and her notebook. John heard the tone in Richard's voice soften ever so slightly when the old man turned around and nodded at his daughter.
"Right. Tell me what you all thought of Kierkegaard."
The next fifty minutes were the most bizarre of John's life. He and Margaret were usually at the center of every class discussion, verbally sparring with enough energy to carry the entire class. But today both of them remained completely silent, earning more than a few furtive glances from classmates and even Richard. John stubbornly stared at a spot on the chalkboard above the older man's shoulder, just to keep himself from staring at Margaret. But he could still see her in his peripheral. She kept her focus on her notes, but her pen never moved, quivering like a cornered animal.
"Read the next three chapters for Wednesday, and don't forget you've another peer review due in two weeks."
Now that class was dismissed, John finally allowed himself to look at her. He'd expected her to rush out with the rest of the class, putting as much distance as possible between them as quickly as possible. He definitely didn't expect her to wait for him by the door. John swallowed hard, yanked his hat on, and stood. She met his questioning look with a hard determined look of her own.
"Please don't say anything," she said quickly before he could even open his mouth. "Your letter—it was more than enough. Not that I could read it. Your handwriting is rubbish, you know."
John rolled his eyes, "I know."
"Look, we don't know each other, Mr Thornton—"
"No." He stepped closer, "If we're going to do this, at least use my name."
She sighed, "It doesn't really matter—"
"It does."
"No, it doesn't because we aren't going to do anything." Margaret replied, grinding her teeth, "Just because you think we might be—whatever you think about your soulmark it doesn't mean anything will change between us."
"Bullshit."
"Mr Thornton—"
"It's John—"
"You think just because some bloody mark on your arm might look like my handwriting that suddenly I'm supposed to throw myself at your feet?" Margaret said, taking a step back. "I don't like you, and I never have."
"Good for you," John growled out, flinching at her sharp words. "This isn't a game for me, Maggie—"
"Don't!" She hissed, jumping forward. "You're not—you're nothing to me, John Thornton."
"Liar," He yanked up his sleeve, his temper boiling. "Tell me I'm wrong and I'll leave you the hell alone."
Margaret took a small step back, scowling, but John followed her. He unstrapped his watch and turned his wrist up so she could see. He'd never showed anyone the writing on his skin besides his father and that had only been once. This was almost as hard as writing that damn letter had been. If he was wrong he'd look like a goddamn fool, but he'd rather know and be done than waste time like an idiot. He forced himself not to say anything as she stood there, rigid and silent.
"You're not," She finally whispered, face turning pale.
"Not what?"
She shifted, pulled a crumpled envelope from her pocket, and slipped it into his hand. "Wrong." Then she turned and bolted out the door. John stood for a second, envelope in one hand, his watch in the other, Margaret's words echoing in his mind.
You're not wrong.
Which meant—
"Shit," John stumbled out into the now-crowded hallway, "Wait, Maggie." His eyes skittered over each face, but he knew she wouldn't come back. His fist tightened around the envelope and he kicked at the cinderblock wall, leaning heavily against its cool surface as the hall suddenly cleared. When the last person had disappeared into their classroom, he flipped the envelope over, swearing loudly.
She'd given his letter back.
"Dad, I need to move sections."
"Move sections?" Her father frowned, and picked up his pipe. "Whatever for?"
"I—" she hesistated. "Please, dad."
Richard Hale watched Margaret shift her weight from one foot to the other, fumbling with the strap on her bag, her eyes wandering over his tiny office. The space was jammed packed with scraggly plants, books, papers, a few small statues and busts, and several excellent pieces of art, framed in vintage gold wood.
"I can't give you special treatment, you know, but," he held up a hand as she sucked in a breath to argue, "but if someone has been...inappropriate then—"
"No, it's not like that," she snapped, flopping down into the only free chair. "He wasn't—well, I guess he was but not in the way you're implying."
"Is this about him then?" Richard nodded at her arm resting on his desk, the soulmark covered in bangles and leather bracelets. Margaret snatched her arm back, and crossed her arms across her chest. "John Thornton."
She gasped, her face reddening, "How—how do you— my God, dad. You knew?"
"You were born with that mark," Richard chuckled humorlessly, keeping his attention on making them a cup of tea. "I saw it many times, enough to recognise it when I finally saw it in person." He pulled a battered business card from the inside pocket of his jacket and held it out. John had scribbled a quick note on the back along with his signature. Margaret's eyes filled with angry tears and she flinched away from the writing as if it would burn her. When the tea was finished, Richard pressed the hot mug into her hands. "Drink up, my dear."
"Why didn't you say anything?" Margaret toyed with the tea bag.
"Because this is between you and John." Richard sipped his tea. "These things happen for a reason—"
"What reason?" She demanded. "What possible reason could the universe have to shackle me to —to that man, of all people? He's rude, arrogant, callous and—"
"—loyal, trustworthy, honest, the hardest worker I've ever met, and also your soulmate."
"You just want me to like him because you do."
"And what do you want, Margaret?" Richard asked, picking up his pipe and lighting it with a few puffs. He swallowed back a laugh as Margaret made a face like she'd swallowed something sour. "He's just a man, my dear. You'll find your way."
"How?"
"That's for you and John to decide."
Margaret shook her head, looking defeated, "Why him?"
"Why not him?" Richard said softly. "I don't pretend to know what you should do."
"But?" Margaret set her mug on his desk with a hard crack. "Go on and say the rest, dad."
"But, whatever you decide, you'll affect two lives, my dear. Remember this is no longer just about you."
"Dad—"
"I suppose it never was, was it?"
"I—I suppose not."
"Do you still wish to move sections?"
Margaret fiddled with her pack. Then she shook her head and stood. "Thanks for the tea."
John pulled off his hat and tossed it onto the floor. Several wads of paper scattered as the hat hit the ground. He glared at the yellow sheet of lined paper sticking out of the typewriter.
"This is stupid," he growled, pushing himself to his feet, pacing the length of his office.
He'd spent almost three hours trying to work out something to say, but everything came out wrong. He poured himself a cup of cold coffee and drank it slowly, eyeing the pile of crumpled papers surrounding his desk. Margaret had made her opinion of him damn clear, and all but told him to jump off a cliff. But—
But she was his soulmate. There was no erasing that and now that they both knew, he wasn't about to let her shut him out. John knocked back the rest of his coffee, chewing on a mouthful of grounds. He forced himself to sit back down at his desk. Five minutes later he yanked the finished letter from the typewriter, slapped it into an envelope, and sealed it shut before he could stop himself.
Margaret paced outside the closed door, her hands heavy with the weight of the unopened letter she clutched. She let out a frustrated breath, her pace quickening. Why the bloody hell couldn't the man take a hint? She'd been so angry when the letter fell through the mail slot, she'd marched aboard the very next city bus, and was on her way before she could stop herself. Now here she was at Marlborough Shipping, trying to muster up her courage to endure another uncomfortable conversation with that man. Margaret's stomach twisted at the thought. Her face grew hot, and she pushed herself into his office, steeling herself.
But he wasn't there.
Margaret blinked at the empty seat. She ought to feel relieved, lighter, less burdened without him to make this impossibly hard. She frowned a little as she surveyed the room, a finger toying with the corner of the envelope in her hand. The fake wooden paneling was pealing along the ceiling, and everything was permeated with the scent of cigarettes, petrol, and burnt coffee. An old futon sat on one end of the room. On the opposite was the large cheap fiberboard desk covered with piles of papers, notes, and files. A sliver lock box hung on the wall behind the desk, and a clock ticked loudly from its spot over the door.
Margaret didn't know why she was still here, or why she felt compelled to visit at all. She moved silently behind his desk, intending to leave the letter there, but she stopped when her foot knocked against something. Several crumpled balls of yellow paper scattered from an overflowing rubbish bin.
"Bloody hell," she muttered, gathering them up quickly. She stopped when her eye caught sight of her name on one of them. "What on earth?"
Margaret smoothed out the paper. Her eyes stung with sudden tears as she scanned the typed letter. It was barely one sentence.
...Margaret, I'm XXXX not very good at this
She quickly rummage through the bin, pulling out dozens of crumpled yellow balls of paper. Slowly she unfolded a few of them, reading the discarded text.
...XXXXXX Margaret, give XX this a chance
...Dear Margaret, I can't write letters.
...I don't know why I'm doing this XXXX. But it's all I've got.
...Maggie, I XXXXing can't figure out what to
...stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Fucking STUPID John Thornton.
Margaret sat heavily in John's chair, the fluffy stack of wrinkled paper in front of her, each a painfully honest desperate attempt to say something he couldn't really find the words for. She allowed herself a wry smile. Each letter was fumbly and awkward, but they proved a simple and infuriating truth she couldn't ignore anymore. John Thornton was just a man. He'd only done what any man might do when faced with the person his soul was searching for and she hadn't even given him a chance. Impossible man that he was, he still hadn't let that stop him from trying again. "Yeah, alright," Margaret shook back her hair and slit open the envelope she still held. The least she could do for him was read it and let him say what he wanted to say.
Maggie,
I was only eight when I watched your mark burn itself into my skin. It hurt like hell and I didn't understand it. 'Margaret' was just a stranger the universe said I was supposed to find. 'Maggie' became someone I could love, if I ever found you. You've always been 'Maggie' to me.
John
A throat cleared and Margaret jumped. John leaned against the doorframe, his hands tucked into his back pockets, watching her carefully. She sat, letter still in her hand, unable to move as he straightened and walked closer. He glanced at the rumpled papers and discarded wads still littering his desk, eyes flashing. Margaret felt her face burn with embarrassment.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I got your letter," Margaret said.
"Did you come to give it back?"
She bit her tongue, nodding. His shoulders slumped just a little, while his face hardened into his familiar scowl. Margaret's eyes widened. She'd seen him do that before, hating it every time, but she'd never realised what he was hiding behind that fierce frown. Frustration. Fatigue. And disappointment.
"There's a shredder in that corner," John growled. "Do me a favour and shred them all."
"John, wait," She stood and grabbed his sleeve as he turned away. "Stop jumping to conclusions and let me finish."
He gave her a guarded look but he nodded, "Fine."
"I wasn't going to read it. But then I saw these," she let go of his sleeve.
He sighed, "You read them." If she hadn't been listening for it, Margaret would've missed the embarrassment in his voice.
"I did and they made me change my mind." She forced herself to look at him. "I was born with—with mine." She fumbled as she slid the bracelets off her wrist. She turned her arm and held it out, shivering when he took it and ran his thumb over the sensitive skin, making it itch and burn. He frowned.
"What?"
"That's fucking weird."
"Shut up," Margaret snorted, jerking her arm back, but John didn't let go. He stepped closer, his body brushing against hers, making her breath and stutter in her lungs. He slid his hand over hers, lacing his fingers through hers. Margaret shivered. "I still don't like you much."
"But?"
"I like your letters."
"Even the bad ones?"
"Especially the bad ones."
"How many do I have to write before I can kiss you?"
Margaret stared incredulously at him a moment, before a small smile tugged at her mouth. He was still just a man, and somehow his blunt honesty made her want to kiss him.
"You—you could kiss me now, if you like."
John raised his eyebrows, his eyes darkening, "Are you sure?"
"You did write a lot of letters already." Margaret licked her lips. "If you do a decent job I'll have something else about you to like."
"If?" John growled, a wicked smile breaking over his face as he bent lower, brushing her lips with his, "If, my ass."
Margaret barely had time to suck in a breath before he kissed her. She wasn't sure what exactly she'd been expecting. But it wasn't this. The only other kisses she'd ever had were hurried, a little awkward, and more stolen than given. John didn't hurry, kissing her like the world had slowed to focus on the singular moment of his mouth exploring hers. John didn't steal either, but simply gave and gave and gave until Margaret felt herself trembling. Impossible and confusing. Like him.
Perhaps the universe knew what it was doing after all.